Undercurrents
by Telepathapprentice
Summary: Catholic Italy.


He had to keep himself from shaking as he watched it, watched them move around him, going about their lives. They didn't have the curse he did, to be burdened with the weight he carried around day after day after day. It hung in the air around him, everywhere, hot and thick and oppressive, and he could barely keep himself from crying out when it would hit him, sharp and stabbing. But oh, no, we had society to think about. People didn't just scream for no reason-that would be strange. And so, he hid it, and hid it well. But the sumptuous settings around him, the dark wood and the plush carpet and the smiles of everyone else….it stifled him, turning the ever-present cloud into a mass that bore down on him. From the burning, furtive glances England shot to France when he thought no one else was looking, to the gleeful irresponsibility with which America addressed everything and everyone, to the very actions of his own brother, placing his palm skin to skin with Spain's so that they both blushed. All of it-every little action stoked the flames, the fires only little, pathetic Italy could feel.

Stumbling slightly, he excused himself and made his way out of the room, gaining some freedom as the presence of the others died away behind him. But simply to have it hidden from sight wasn't enough-he knew what they did, what they thought, what those little words and actions translated to behind closed doors. They thought they were so secretive, so special in what they did, excusing themselves in the name of pride, lust, love, devotion. They thought no one could tell, least of all him, when their citizens had carried on the same trappings for years on end. He was well-schooled in determining what people thought…all of them were. They simply thought he was the exception, childish, innocent little Italy. And should anything be too overt, any action become too pronounced, he simply had to do what everyone else did-pretend to accept it, to pretend everything was fine and normal and good. Because no one cared anymore, right? Getting all worked up over little things like these was the realm of pious priests and monks.

Even standing in the street, he couldn't escape it. It lay, buried, in the heart of his citizens, of every person everywhere at every time. He couldn't face any of them, any of the supposedly normal people he passed on his way-his way out of the city, his way out of this furnace. How could he look them in the eye when he knew the darkness that lay beneath their skin, the twisted painful actions they carried out in secret? He knew he was no better-he was the same as the rest of them, but they seemed to feel no remorse for their actions. They did not repent, daily, as he did. Maybe, once, but no longer. And that was the part that dug into him most deeply, the fact that they reveled in their wrongdoings, their paths of darkness-and encouraged him to join them, to condone what they did. He smiled with them, appeased them with his joking laughter, but he felt their wrongdoings added to his load as he realized that they would never regret what they were doing. And he knew, too, that he could never tell them that they were wrong, because he would be branded an outsider. Ignorant. Foolish. Stuck in the ways of the past. So he ran, ran from the people that caused it all and searched for his past, finally reaching the open door of a small chapel.

He paused for a moment, standing there in the entrance as the sun filtered through the small stained-glass windows. Then, taking a small step forward, he began murmuring under his breath as he made his way toward the altar. The cross hung huge and heavy on the wall beside the windows, managing to fill the small chapel with its presence yet still comforting to the young man. He dared not look at it, instead reaching blindly with one hand to grasp the scale image draped around his neck, rubbing the corpus Christi with his thumb as he mumbled out his prayers. With tears pricking his eyes, he sank to his knees before the wooden altar, reaching up to catch himself before leaning his head against the cloth covering. It bunched beneath his fingers as he cried out, his breath catching as he begged his Lord for forgiveness, mercy, both for himself and his countrymen. For them, for their actions and flippancy about what they did, the lives they led…and for him, for his weakness and inability to confront them, to stand up against the pressure they presented and the pressure to conform. He could feel his tears staining the scarlet cloth, its rough thinness a sharp contrast to the silky, lush trappings of their meeting rooms and homes. He leaned heavily against the altar, his lips still moving to form prayers and cries for help as he closed his eyes against the world around him. Clinging to the crucifix around his neck, he curled into the wood of the altar, body shuddering with his crying before slowing into a gentle rocking, his breaths falling silently in the empty room. The soft sunlight seemed to wrap around him, cradling him as the deserted chapel slowly and quietly welcomed him back…home.


End file.
